


Hunted

by andIOUsomuch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Multi, superlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andIOUsomuch/pseuds/andIOUsomuch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's a hunter. And he's about to die. But his guardian angel won't let him down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson was going to die. That much he was certain of. He'd stupidly stumbled into a den of demons, at least 15 of them surrounded him. An abandoned warehouse, and he ended up tied to a dirty, blood soaked wooden chair. Normally he could've taken them on, but he was prepared for a shapeshifter. How had he missed the signs? It was so obvious. Stupid, stupid stupid.   
One nasty bitch leered in front of him, grinning his sharp, rancid, brown teeth in John's face. He found his throat ripping, screaming with pain as another sharp pain erupted from inside him. These bastards weren't going to kill him. They were going to torture him, and eat him alive. “Fuck you.” he growled, gritting his teeth to keep from moaning in pain. A red eyed demon stepped forward wielding a bright blue blade, he smirked and spat on it, before plunging it into John's shoulder. He didn't scream, but his body did. His body wailed as it twisted inside of him, the demon's saliva stinging the wound further. 

Loud, high pitched shrieking filled his ears. That didn't come from me... He though, staring at the demons as they panicked, wondering what John could've done with his hands bound, as they pressed their hands to their ears. John, however was helpless, and he felt his ears become hotter, and wetter, he felt blood drip down the side of his face. Suddenly, the room went bright, too bright, painfuly bright, and the hunter passed out.   
Warm. John remembered warm, as his eyes opened slowly, blinking, before fluttering shut again, despite the face that hovered close overhead. That face was too... beautiful to be a demon, for lack of better words. Demons could possess the most attractive body on Earth, but somehow it always looked deformed, the moment you were taken. He'd seen it happen too many times before. No. The face that was hovered over him, he thought as his eyes attempted to open once more, was almost heavenly. All sharp angles, but beautiful in contrast to the light behind it.   
“Are you okay?” the face said, and suddenly it had a body too, and a voice. A low voice. A tantalizingly low British voice.   
John flinched, his arms were free, he grabbed the knife from his boot and sliced it across the man's skin with a snarl. “Let me go!” he yelled, realizing this man had him pinned against the floor, and didn't even flinch at the silver of the knife, almost as if he hadn't felt the sharp blade pierce his skin. It didn't bleed.   
This time he used his hoarse voice of his own accord. He felt his throat rip with the words, bleeding further into his lungs. Not good, very not good.  
“Right, you are obviously not okay. Hold still.” The voice murmured, and a cool hand pressed against John's forehead, he fought the pressure, the feeling he would die overcame him, and he accepted his fate, dying by some unknown creature, cold but warm, soft but rigid. Angelic in the scariest way.   
And then his throat cooled. The bleeding place on his shoulder closed up, he felt his skin cooling and spreading to cover it. He lifted his head, now strong to check the wound. It was scarred over, but there was no pain. “What the hell...” he murmured, and looked back at the thing standing before him, “What are you?”   
“My name is Sherlock. I am an angel of the Lord.”


	2. Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns more about the angels, and meets a very promising character.

John laughed. “Someone's full of themselves.” The man, Sherlock, apparently, tilted his head, like a dog that heard a strange noise. “I am a guardian angel. Yours, specifically. You were about to die, so I was sent here to protect you.” John quirked an eyebrow and pushed himself up off the ground, standing to face Sherlock. Jesus, he was tall. “Yeah, well, thanks for that mate, but I don't do partners.” He started to walk forward, past Sherlock, when he hit something soft. He flinched, stepped back, and found that nothing was in front of him. Sherlock hadn't moved. “I am not allowed to leave until you are out of danger. You are still being tracked, John Hamish Watson.” 

“What the hell did I just hit?” the blonde man asked, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock. Tall dark and handsome, his skin contrasted the clothes he wore and his dark brown hair perfectly. You are not attracted to a crazy angel-man. He scolded himself. “My wings.” The crazy angel-man answered, with his insanely low voice. John was close enough now to see the dip in Sherlock's lip. The man had a bloody cupids bow, and what colour were those eyes?! “Where you from?” He questioned further, wondering the origins of the accent this man spouted. Did all 'angels' have British accents? He hadn't heard a single one since he came to America. 

“Heaven.” Sherlock answered, staring at John with his eyes, but keeping his head fixed forward. “There isn't any such place.” John responded, dully.   
“I assume you mean why do I have a British accent. The vessel I have chosen is originally from London, I thought you would enjoy having someone with a voice similar to yours to talk to, but it seems I under estimated the tone of this human's voice.” John blinked. This guy was for real, or at least he thought himself to be. “Fine. Sherlock. You got a last name?”  
“The Lord doesn't bother with last names. But my vessel's last name is Holmes. I believe.” John shook his head. “Of course he doesn't.” 

There was an angel in his hideout. He promised to never bring any non-human creatures into this place, and here sat his crazy guardian-angel-man. “Why do I have a guardian angel? Am I special or does everyone get their own? Because I have too many dead friends for that to be fair.” Sherlock stared around the flat, looking bored, but observant. “I am yours. I do not know why you were chosen.”

“Oooo.” John said, wiggling his fingers. “Does that mean I'm the chosen one?” Sherlock blinked at him, and finally turned his attention to John. The hunter felt small under Sherlock's gaze. It was like he could see John transparently. Like he knew John's whole story, even before glancing at him. Maybe he did. The baritone voice rumbled,“Yes. You're the next prophet.” John laughed.

“What, like the Bible geeks?”   
“Prophets.”  
“As in Luke, or Matthew or something?”  
“As in John.”   
“Won't having two prophets named John confuse people?” 

Sherlock shrugged, “Would it? I do not know how people's mind's work. Perhaps we can call you Watson, then.” John groaned, and opened a beer. “Want one?” Sherlock tilted his head, almost as if he was confused by the prospect of being offered a drink. “Let me guess.” John groaned, “You've never had a drink before, have you?” The angel pondered this before shrugging, looking up at John through his eyelashes. “I have never drunken anything before. New vessel.” John blinked, realizing the 'vessel' wasn't actually Sherlock's body. “You stole a human's body?” 

“I didn't steal it. He prayed to me, offered it to me.”   
“Angels don't have bodies?”  
“Not like yours, no.”  
“But what do you look like?”  
“My real form has two wings, roughly the size of a commercial airplane, the head of a-”

A loud slam against the door cut them off. Sherlock flinched and jumped up, wrapping his arms and- JESUS. What was that brushing up against his arm? He couldn't see whatever it was...  
“What the hell was that?” John asked, probably a stupid question.

“My brother.” Sherlock growled. A high pitched noise shrieked, and Sherlock snarled further, his upper lip curling as he stared at the front door of John's flat. It pierced though John's eardrums and he held a hand to his ear. He felt himself getting dizzy, and shut his eyes, when a soft feathery thing brushed against his hand. Wings. Definitely wings. The shrieking continued, but muffled words began coming clearer under the white noise. “Is that you?” He asked the angel, circling around him.  
“He's trying to communicate with me.” Sherlock tossed over his shoulder, as blinding light began shining through John's front door.   
“Shut your eyes.” The dark haired angel ordered, and John obeyed, before blackness absorbed his mind.


End file.
